


In Which Mycroft Kidnaps the Boys

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John's so in love it's silly, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says, echoing my own thoughts tidily. (It's a touch unnerving, how often he does that.) But then he adds, with a fair dose of agitation, "It's one thing to snatch John up, God knows it's easy enough, but to have me pulled off the street like some common-"</p><p>"No, wait a second," I splutter, sliding forward on those damned expensive leather seats, "when did it become 'fine' to kidnap me? That's not fine. That's distinctly not fine."</p><p>----<br/>As Mycroft and Sherlock bicker, John's thoughts wander to his favourite madman.<br/>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mycroft Kidnaps the Boys

_John:_

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says, echoing my own thoughts tidily. (It's a touch unnerving, how often he does that.) But then he adds, with a fair dose of agitation, "It's one thing to snatch John up, God knows it's easy enough, but to have  _me_  pulled off the street like some common-"

"No, wait a second," I splutter, sliding forward on those damned expensive leather seats, "when did it become 'fine' to kidnap me? That's not fine. That's _distinctly_  not fine."

Mycroft looks away from his tinted window with boredom looming on his smug features (and not just a hint of amusement, the mad bastard) and speaks to Sherlock as if I don't exist. "I would not have to kidnap you, my dear brother, if you would only concede to visit Mummy on your own more than once a decade."

"Mummy knows where I live," Sherlock sniffs, and I get the sudden image of a dark-haired, fair-skinned, impossibly posh older woman fainting at the sight of the congealing  _human_  blood that's right now sitting in a bowl on our kitchen table. Apparently Mycroft is thinking along the same lines, because he makes a face and says, softly, "To my great displeasure, you're not mistaken. But I don't foresee Mummy darkening your doorway any time soon."

"Exactly right." Sherlock crosses his arms. "So why should I darken hers?"

"Sherlock." Oh, great, and now Mycroft's doing his "big brother" voice. (Which is not quite the same as his "Big Brother" voice. I've had the misfortune of encountering that one at least once so far.) "You are perfectly aware of Mummy's midsummer gala. I had Anthea email you, text you, even send you an actual invite in the post, which I have observed on your refrigerator door no less than three times in the last month. Please do not play the fool when we both know the act to be tiresome and unneeded."

"Oh, right." I rub my chin. "I did put that on the fridge door, Sherlock. Thought it sounded important." But God, that was ages ago. How many cases have we done since then? Five, at least. I glance over at Sherlock, who has narrowed his eyes at me as though I'm meant to rue the day I agreed with Mycroft about anything.

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Watson," Mycroft says, none too warmly. He gives me a dismissive look and then looks over at Sherlock before falling into a rapid, decidedly French diatribe. I'm lost on French, sadly (took German at school, and only for a few years at that) but Sherlock seems to be keeping up okay, returning fire in the same easy, unaccented tones as his brother.

I always wish I had the gift for language. God knows I tried hard enough with the Pashto. I was forever pestering our interpreter (don't think he much minded, though, as he always struck me as the lonely sort) and thumbing through that little book of mine. I haven't thought of that Pashto-to-English guide book in awhile, but all of a sudden I can almost feel it, the weather-worn pages so thick with dust and curling at the edges (from sweat, from use, from wind and rain). The thing was like a Bible to me, almost. I used to fall asleep with it, open to whatever phrase I was trying desperately to force through my stubborn skull. I remember even asking for it in hospital, after….well, after. And they gave it back to me, too, but it was useless, the pages all stuck together with dried blood because it had been in my breast pocket that day-  _that impossibly bright day, the sound of men screaming beside me, the sharp stutter of an automatic rifle so close to my ear that it still rings, sometimes, when it's too quiet_ -

"John?"

I look up to find both Holmes brothers looking at me closely, but it's Sherlock's face that makes my throat go dry. They both know what I was thinking about, somehow, as if my face is a projection screen for my memories, but Sherlock actually looks like…like it hurts him, somehow, that I've slipped away into the past and forgotten about how good things are here in the present. "All right?" he asks softly, and my damn heart actually leaps.

"Your French," I babble, because I'm caught off guard and I don't want to talk about that blasted guide book. "It's good. It sounds…good."

A slow smile creeps across Sherlock's face. "You don't speak French."

"Not a bit." And then, stupidly, I blurt: "But I like the way it sounds, coming from you. Like I could…"  _Listen to it all day_ , I think with a wince. Christ, I've got to remember not to think about the war at random because it's really throwing me off balance here. "Like I could maybe pick some up," I finish, aware that it's a sort of feeble addendum but not knowing what else to say. It's a struggle not to look at Mycroft, but even out of the corner of my eye I can see he's got one of his smarmy little eyebrows raised.

Sherlock blinks at me for a second before apparently deciding to set his current train of thought aside and get back to his argument with Mycroft. I'm ridiculously glad when they both seem to forget about me, but I'm careful not to drift back into my own thoughts since they're apparently dangerous today. First Afghanistan, then whatever that was with Sherlock…no, I'm definitely just going to fold my arms and think about telly. There's a programme I've been meaning to catch and I think it might come on tonight. Assuming we can get away from Mycroft, I might be able to talk Sherlock into watching it with me. A little Chinese takeaway, maybe I can pilfer some wine from Mrs. Hudson…yes, tonight might turn out nicely. We can sit on the sofa, and Sherlock can do that thing he does where he wiggles his toes down under my thigh and fidgets all evening. Oh, I put on like it bothers me, of course, but sometimes it's nice just to relax together, warm from wine and Sherlock's perpetually moving feet-

Great, there I've gone again. It seems all my thoughts today are leading back to him. He catches my eye and smiles at me- his real smile, not his put-on one- and I smile back reflexively, warmly. And I find I don't blame myself so much for letting Sherlock invade my every thought. After all, how can I think about anything else when he's smiling at me like that?


End file.
